


First Rule, Second Rule

by laEsmeralda



Series: Viggo's Fight Club [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 21:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2323763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laEsmeralda/pseuds/laEsmeralda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1st Rule: You do not talk about Viggo's Fight Club.</p><p>2nd Rule: You DO NOT talk about Viggo's Fight Club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Rule, Second Rule

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This series has a constantly shifting character POV.

From his kitchen, Viggo could hear the boys' banter growing louder in the living room. The tone had changed from good natured and silly to edgy, serious. He put down the knife and wiped his hands.

It was easier to hear Elijah's voice than Orlando's. "What the fuck? Why _do_ you always have to give me shit about it?"

"I'm not. Just thinking a work out more than once in a blue moon would help with your stress level. You were complaining after all, weren't you?"

"Look after your own goddamn self. At least I'm not always getting hurt."

"No, you'd have to _move_ to get hurt." Orlando still teased, not catching the anger crawling under Elijah's surface. "Skinny as I am -- as all of you are fond of reminding me -- I should not so easily whip your ass."

"You have more leverage." Elijah's voice had gone cold. 

In that voice, Viggo heard the long day, several beers, no dinner yet. And discouraging notes from a hard day's work that Elijah had only just related to Viggo before Orlando breezed into the house. It was beyond Viggo why on earth they had settled on arm-wrestling for amusement. He rounded the doorway just as Orlando predictably failed to take the hint.

"Leverage? I have two to four hours a day of archery and knife practice even when we're shooting. This is my point, you coddled little hobbit. If you don't get some exercise, I'll beat you again next time." Orlando didn't even look up from the scrapbook pages of Viggo's photos and scribbles.

There was a brief moment when everything appeared to be fine and laughter might have ended the discussion as Orlando fully expected it to. Then, Elijah launched himself at Orlando across the coffee table, knocking him flat in the moment of surprise. The scrapbook went flying. 

"Fuck you, you fucking arrogant prick!" This was not an apt description and somewhere in the back of Elijah's sodden and stinging mind, he knew so. But he couldn't stop. He had a sudden desire to be totally out of control. 

Taken off guard, Orlando instinctively defended himself, then, when the words and the pain in his ribs registered, the anger kicked in and he snarled back at Elijah.

They grabbed and rolled ferociously on the carpet. Scrapbooks, scripts, and beer bottles scattered. Orlando's elbow connected with the edge of the coffee table. He cursed, pushing his forearm back against Elijah's throat. Elijah's head banged into the underside of the tabletop with a crash. More expletives issued. 

Viggo leaned on the doorjamb and watched with something between amusement and worry. Tired himself, he had already downed a shot of whisky and felt far more relaxed than he thought he should in response to such a scene. For the moment, though, it seemed more appropriate for him to observe the chaos and not intervene. Steam clearly needed to be blown off, which was fine with him as long as nobody got really hurt. 

Viggo thought, snarling aside, that Orlando had to be holding back or Elijah would already be pinned. Not that Elijah would agree with that assessment. And Elijah was very much _not_ holding back. His fingers had hooked in Orlando's t-shirt and but for the deeply bitten fingernails would have scratched the hell out of his friend on the way up to gouge at his shoulders. 

"Stop it, Lij!" Orlando said through gritted teeth. 

Elijah did not stop. He growled. He thrashed and clawed. His legs were locking on Orlando's hips when Orlando decided he'd had enough and reversed their positions, nailing Elijah to the floor. 

There was no easy way to grab the flailing hands yet, so Orlando settled for a solid grip on Elijah's shoulders. He slid down to sit firmly on the twisting thighs to prevent being kneed anywhere they were aiming. His own anger cooling just a little, he hovered and watched with odd detachment as a raging flush mottled Elijah's cheeks. Orlando felt bewildered in addition to a little drunk, couldn't seem to catch up with what was happening, didn't understand how Elijah could be so upset with him.

This distant regard seemed to piss Elijah off even more, and he grabbed fistfuls of the front of Orlando's shirt, heedless of -- perhaps even pleased with -- the pinching of skin underneath, his knees still working for some other target.

"Ow! Christ, Elijah! I'm losing my fucking patience here! What the hell is the matter with you?" 

The worst of the flurry seemed under control, and Viggo's posture eased a little more. The good friend in him was tempted to say, 'Hey, he's had a bad day, cut him some slack.' But the slightly inebriated artist was tuning in, opening to the raw emotions and colors of the fight. Finding them quite interesting. Unexpectedly moving. 

A trickle of blood welled at Elijah's nose. Orlando didn't notice. Viggo did.

Orlando was always so cheerful, goofy even, that seeing him irritated and aggressive was a new thing. It added depth. Elijah tended to stuff things, to act nonchalant, so unbridled anger seemed almost healthy, purging. Maybe that's why Orlando wasn't just getting up and walking away. Not that Elijah would let him. Elijah's eyes were still wild and Viggo wondered if Orlando could spot the danger.

"Really, Lij, why don't you just talk to me instead of trying to beat me up? Unsuccessfully, I might add," he said, his cheeriness returning.

Nope. Viggo grinned. Orlando did _not_ have the elvish way with all good beasts. 

Elijah pinched harder, causing a sharp intake of breath. "Maybe you should just suck my dick, elf-boy," he hissed, wide eyes narrowing. 

The vehemence rocked both Orlando and Viggo back. Viggo's grin faded. 

Over-groomed brows draw together, sharp shoulders rounded, smiling lips thinned not so kindly. Defense changed to offense. "Oh, is that what this is hard for then?" Orlando whispered nastily. His hips flexed forward once and then back, double-checking to assure everyone he was not imagining it. 

The look on Elijah's face turned to sheer panic. 

Viggo stood up straighter. 

"Not my thing you know," Orlando continued, "but if you really, really need me to," he leaned forward a little, keeping Elijah pinned with his hands, "there's no need to hurt me to get it."

'Orlando, that's enough'... Viggo wondered why he didn't speak the words. He heard them clearly in his own head. They were the right words. From yards away, he could see tears jump into Elijah's eyes.

"Fuck you," Elijah said hoarsely. He shut his eyes to hide what just rolled on out anyway. Neither could he hide the blood that chose that moment to run down from nose to ear.

Just seeing the trickle shocked Orlando. As anger morphed to concern, he actually heard what had come out of his mouth. "Jesus, I'm sorry. Dunno what came over me. That was so fucking _mean_." Orlando sat back on his heels and let go of Elijah's shoulders, one hand moving to wipe the blood away and then onto his track pants. Elijah's hands remained clutched in Orlando's shirt. "Lijah, you just... maybe you'd better tell me what I've done to piss you off -- what I did _before_ that last bit, anyway -- so I can apologize instead of being an asshole." He started to slide off Elijah. A pair of desperate hands grabbed his hips, finally releasing his shirt. Orlando froze. 

"No. Damn it. Don't stop fighting me. I'm not hurt!" Elijah's voice had a desperate edge to go along with the desperate hands.

"But I'm not mad anymore. I don't want to fight you." Orlando had the good grace not to openly notice that Elijah's hands rested on the crests of his hipbones.

"No one ever takes me on. I need you to. I'm _not_ weak." The wet eyes opened. Elijah was still shaking with rage and frustration.

Orlando tried not to sound exasperated. "I don't think you're weak. I just think you're too deep into your head. Get moving. Blow off some steam." Orlando lifted his t-shirt and looked at the red pinch-marks underneath. He winced. "Huh. Looks like you did that though. Got more where that came from, do you? I'm not sure I could take it."

Viggo didn't miss much from his position. He decided age and wisdom and confidence needed to weigh in to solve three problems at once. But he couldn't seem to move quickly. He settled for moving at all. "Okay, we're gonna play a little game," he rumbled. 

Four eyes slid to him and Elijah went very still. They had known he was there but had been too intent to remember it. 

"Stay there. Exactly. Where you are." He went to lock the front door. And the side door. Turned off the stove. On his way back, he snagged the whisky bottle and a wet paper towel. He paused again in the doorway and took a slow swig. 

Both young men watched him with curiosity and more than a little apprehension. "What're we playing?" ventured Orlando, always up for an adventure.

Viggo advanced a few steps and lowered himself into an armchair, handing the paper towel to Orlando, watching him wipe off the rest of the blood. "This game is about blowing off steam, really blowing it off without turning my house into Fight Club.'" That garnered a couple of snickers.

"Viggo's Fight Club, then." Elijah actually smiled and his shoulders relaxed back into the carpet.

"Fine." Viggo shrugged.

"First rule of Viggo's Fight Club?" Orlando picked up the reference.

Unfortunately, this required Viggo to recall the list, through the whisky. Right now, he only needed the first rule. "We don't talk about my Fight Club." Viggo's voice was soft and even, in control of his audience. "Uncomfortable yet?" He raised an eyebrow at Orlando. "Sitting on top of Lij there. Not uncomfortable yet?" 

"You said to stay where we were." Orlando's chin lifted a notch, challenging, his mouth wry. "Elijah didn't want to, so I made sure he did what you said." 

Elijah made a disgruntled noise.

"And Elijah's holding you down so you won't leave, because you didn't want to stay either?" He nodded to the hands resting lightly on Orlando's hips. "Still pissed off, Lij?"

"Not so much." The hands slid off Orlando.

"Still hard?" Same nonchalant, nonthreatening tone.

Elijah inhaled sharply. "Not. So much," he replied quietly.

"Not so little either," Orlando grinned mischievously, earning him a hard punch on the shoulder. "Ow! Don't start that again. Can I move yet?" he asked Viggo earnestly.

"Do you want to?" Viggo rumbled, trying to ignore the tiny, unexpected thrill of being asked permission.

Orlando held Viggo's gaze without flinching but didn't answer. 

Viggo took another drink, feeling the whisky's pleasant burn reduce to a glow in his stomach. He looked at Elijah. "You want him to?" 

No answer. 

"You feel less upset. Don't you." 

"Yeah. I don't want to talk about _being upset_ though."

"Fine. Second rule of my Fight Club? You do NOT talk about Fight Club. Look. We're all exhausted. Worked up, stressed out. Life's good, but rough. For just this minute, forget about labels. Preconceived notions." He passed the bottle to Orlando who took a deep swallow. 

"Want some, Lij?" Orlando didn't look down. He couldn't look down.

"No. I had too much to drink earlier. Sorry for what I said." Elijah felt Orlando trembling almost imperceptibly. Nothing Elijah knew of made Orlando tremble.

"It's okay." Orlando dropped his hand and rubbed Elijah's stomach deferentially before returning the bottle to Viggo. Then, he put his hands back on his own thighs, casually brushing them over the fabric to dry the palms. "So, what would we have preconceived notions about that we should forget?"

"You trust me?" Viggo asked in the low, almost mumbling voice again.

Elijah huffed. "Yeah. As far as an orc could throw you." He frowned. "Wait..."

Orlando shrugged. "Of course. But _do you trust me_ is never a good opener. What've you got in mind?"

Viggo didn't smile. And he looked right at Orlando. "Feel what you've got between your thighs right now." That statement leveled the room into silence. "Really. Feel. Or does he have to piss you off first. You felt him earlier."

Orlando blushed. "That... was some sort of weird male-dominance thing. I shouldn't have said anything."

"Viggo. Don't..." Elijah whispered. "I don't. Want, what you think."

Then, Viggo smiled slowly. "I don't think anything about what you want. Standing over there watching the two of you not quite fight, I felt something. Something interesting. I'm exploring it. Now, Orlando, close your eyes. Be objective. Describe, don't conclude."

Orlando closed his eyes, sat up straighter. Wondered if his knees would soon start aching. They weren't yet. Elijah shifted a little under him, nervously. Orlando swallowed. "Muscle. Bone. Warm."

"What else?" Viggo asked.

Orlando cleared his throat. "Soft. Sort of... plush. But strong underneath." The thighs flexed under him again and he almost looked at Elijah then, his face tipping as it would if his eyes had been open. "I never said you weren't." Orlando would never insult Elijah's body like that. Whatever the elf's bearing might imply, Orlando was not comfortable in his own shell. He looked at himself and didn't see what he wanted to see, no matter how hard he worked. Didn't have what he thought of as a man's form like Bean or Mortensen had. Never would. He understood Elijah's sensitivity on the matter. He empathized.

"Orlando?" Elijah spoke softly.

"Yeah?" he kept his eyes shut. 

"Move up a little. My knees are killing me."

Orlando obliged with a relieved grin, feeling the plush, warm, hard shifting beneath him. He resisted the urge to ask if he was too heavy. Elijah moved to bend his knees, and Orlando felt slim thighs come to rest against the small of his own back. Now, it was okay somehow to look. "Lij, what was wrong earlier?"

Elijah pondered for a minute. "Something happened today. Made me feel really fucking small. Threatened. Frustrated. Doesn't matter. I shouldn't have taken it out on you." He chuckled. "Forgot the Third Rule -- if someone says _stop_ or goes limp, taps out, the fight is over. And you asked me to stop."

"I was being a know it all. Lecturing. You hate that. I hate that."

"But you were right. I need to move. I hold all this shit inside."

Orlando shrugged again. "Doesn't matter if I was right. I still should keep my fuckin' mouth shut." He grabbed the paper towel and wiped another small smear of blood from Elijah's nostril.

Elijah rocked his legs a little, back and forth, as if singing a silent song to his friend. "Nah. You look out for me. Don't stop."

Viggo felt the renewed sweetness of their interaction move through him like the heat of the whisky, slowing him down even more. He examined them with care. Flushed. Beautiful, each in his own way. Almost still teenagers with wild moods, horny, unpredictable. Just friends. Both straight... probably. It didn't matter. Together, they made heat, steel and flint throwing sparks. "So, Lij," he said, smiling again, "what do you feel right now?" For Elijah, he skipped the 'between your thighs' part.

"Better. Safe." Elijah's eyes were open, sparkling now, not sad and wet. They were watching Orlando's closed eyes as Elijah rocked him back and forth. He reached for one of Orlando's hands, resting palm up on lanky thighs, and turned it over onto his stomach where it had rubbed earlier. Orlando didn't resist but Elijah's hand covered it anyway.

Viggo suppressed a groan. That gesture. All sorts of lovely, dirty visions intruded on his imagination. Things he knew would never happen. Things he wanted to paint, silky pigments pushing through his fingers as he circumscribed his sense of the love between these two, trying to give it a physical home. Things he wanted to write into poems where the words spoke the way the light shattered over the bones of their faces as they didn't look at each other. Things that with age and wisdom and confidence could just happen and not spoil the rest.

Elijah slid Orlando's t-shirt up over his ribs, fingertips tracing red, swollen marks. "I really hurt you," he said, his voice thick with self-reproach. 

Orlando's eyes opened, the outside corners crinkled. "I didn't have to fight back, you know. 'Course, you could've just pissed on me and got it over with," he chuckled.

"Little hard to do with you holding me down." Elijah continued to trace the marks he had made, still surprised at himself. 'Holding me down,' he thought again. Anger put the fight in him, but it wasn't what had made him hard. It was the touch of this particular body pressing against him as they fought. Unexpected. "Luckily, unlike you, Legolas never takes his shirt off." 

"Tolkien only allows for Frodo-baring," Orlando quipped, his goofiness returning, "the Ring-barer." 

"Don't remind me," groaned Elijah. 

"Which is a good thing. I could never get buff enough to do the elf's body for Chrissake." 

Viggo blinked away a recollection of the earlier practice. It came to him, like everything else right now, in slow motion. Orlando sweating, bare-chested and bare-backed, track pants clinging low on his waist. Thin, yes, but.... He decided that if Orlando was correct, then current definitions of buff were an injustice. Buzzing with whisky and lack of needed sleep and food, Viggo's mind slid back to the artist's view. Sometimes staring at a color made him horny. A photograph he had taken of the curve of a flamenco dancer's hip, just the outside curve, never failed to make him hard. He shifted his legs. This was overload. A movement from Elijah shook Viggo out of his reverie.

Elijah pulled up his own shirt to his armpits, his pale stomach hollowing away, leaving Orlando's hand on bare skin still lush with baby fat. "Go ahead, even the score, man." He couldn't imagine at that moment, what drove him to do that. His heart drummed against his sternum.

"There _is_ no score." Orlando looked at his hand splayed on Elijah's tender stomach and his fingers curled. He tried to imagine himself pinching or scratching his friend in revenge. He shook his head. "Can't do it in cold blood. Not sure I could do it angry either. Have to leave it to the orcs." Elijah didn't put his shirt back. Smiling, Orlando leaned down to one side and rolled, pulling Elijah with him. Orlando dropped his legs and kicked Elijah's apart, easily reversing their positions.

Elijah grinned down from his new vantage point. "Smoothly done." Of course, he had followed, assisted.

"Thought you should have a chance to be on top." 

"That's the difference between you and me. You think of these things." Elijah reached for the bottle and Viggo passed it, leaning forward onto his knees. "What're we doing?" Elijah asked him with genuine curiosity, taking a judicious sip.

"Talking," replied Viggo. "Feeling better."

"I didn't know you were feeling bad." The bright eyes slid back to Viggo.

Viggo shrugged. "Not bad, exactly, just... tired. Slow. I'm not as young, relatively speaking, as Aragorn." He swallowed the corollary about being older than the combined ages of the two men entwined on his rug. Young men who would be mightily offended at the use of such a verb as 'entwined.'

"So, what's wrong with Orlando?" Elijah's eyes returned there, looking down. "Or is he just fine?"

Orlando tucked his hands behind his head. "A little lonesome. Got that heartsick feeling from Leggy these days. Everything's fine."

"Lonesome?"

"Yeah." Brows furrowed again. "Nobody touches the elf. There's no hobbity hugging, that's for sure. Anyway, I kinda absorb that reserve, the distance, but I don't necessarily like it." 

Elijah's nose wrinkled with skepticism. "You touch everybody, man. You're a touchy-feely guy."

"That's different. I said, nobody touches the elf."

Viggo thought ahead thirty pages or so in the script but didn't say anything. Come to think of it, even a fervent shoulder clasp between comrades wouldn't be anything like a hug.

"Besides, you're an honorary hobbit." Elijah was taking this seriously.

"It's still different. You guys even sleep in a big smelly pile sometimes."

"You want into the pile?" 'We'll make room,' he thought.

"Not exactly. Just noticing." Orlando grinned. He promptly sobered as Elijah slid forward and laid himself out over Orlando's longer body, tucking his head under the sharp chin, pulling his arms in close on the rug along Orlando's sides. Elijah sighed a large, happy sigh. Orlando looked at Viggo in ongoing surprise and Viggo smiled big.

"Go with it. The full-body hug ought to make up for some lonesome elf feelings." Viggo ignored the urgent desire he now had to excuse himself to the bathroom although his bladder was just fine. He could just stroll in there, no hurry at all, and beat himself back to his senses. 

He wished these weren't his friends and colleagues so that he could guide the situation right into where the two of them were getting each other off on the rug at his feet. He was pretty sure it could be accomplished with the right combination of drink, silliness, affection, and above all, permission from the elder regarded as downright macho. He shut his eyes. Nope. Not breaching the covenant. Not abusing his power. He moved to sit crosslegged in the armchair. Opened his eyes.

Orlando looked at the ceiling and enjoyed the warm weight pressing him down into the carpet. Elijah seemed totally relaxed. An almost painful, warm feeling centered in Orlando's chest. He released an arm and let it drape across Elijah's back, wrist hanging overboard. He spoke, "Thanks, man, apparently just what the doctor ordered."

"Don't mention it," came the muffled reply. Elijah shifted, turning his face to the other side. Orlando was bony, but Elijah noticed how the hollow from shoulder to chest nicely cradled his cheekbone.

"Your neck okay?" Orlando tried not to notice what the movement brought to his negligent attention. Bare stomachs. The exact location of Elijah's crotch.

"Yup. Just wanted to wink at Viggo." And Elijah did.

"Wink?" Orlando was pretty sure there was no prank afoot, but one could almost never be certain. He looked past the spikes of Elijah's short hair to check Viggo's quizzical expression.

"Yeah, he's doing his observing artist thing up there," Elijah continued, his lips moving the words across Orlando's t-shirt where it stretched across a curve. The smell of the shirt, or of the body it hugged, intrigued him.

"How'd you know?" Viggo asked.

"Just know."

"I was just thinking I should go finish slamming dinner into the oven." Viggo got up abruptly. He was beginning to feel like an intruder, not a participant-observer.

"Hurry back," Orlando said, his voice oddly husky with the weight of another person on his chest. He listened to the changed pitch and returned his attention to the ceiling.

"Mind if I nap here?" Elijah murmured sleepily. "Just for a little while?"

"Knock yourself out," replied Orlando. In a light haze of whisky and Elijah warmth, Orlando dozed off himself.

Viggo discreetly checked on them when the room had gone quiet, his curiosity too powerful to ignore. They were... sleeping. He almost laughed as he leaned back and examined the swirling contents of his own head. What did he think would happen? And this was perfectly cool... snuggling. Absolutely what Orlando needed and what Elijah was perfectly suited to give.

Unfortunately, the present ache in his own body wasn't about snuggling. Viggo could envision going over and joining them, wrapping his arms around them, feeling and smelling for just a moment their sleeping energy before his presence disrupted their balance. Then, there would be silliness and laughter, because to do anything else would be unthinkably predatory. And the ache would eventually go away on its own. He sighed and turned back to the stove.

Orlando awoke to the sound of Viggo pouring wine into glasses at the table. He slowly oriented. His hand no longer dangled over the precipice of Elijah's ribs, it was pressed open on his friend's back. He tilted his wrist so that he could see the time, and resisted the urge to stretch. 

Elijah was breathing slowly, evenly, his weight slightly heavier than before. Soft, heavy, warm -- hot where their stomachs were bare, relaxed. Orlando savored it for a moment. And then realized with a start that he himself was hard, really hard against the downward pressure of Elijah's sleeping hips. It felt good in a desperate and inconvenient sort of way. _Fucking track pants hide nothing._ What had he been dreaming about in a mere seven minutes of sleep?

He was considering rolling Elijah off onto the floor precisely for the unceremonious waking it would cause. That would provide cover. He could make a beeline for the bathroom -- they had drunk quite a bit. 

But then, Viggo reappeared in the chair. "Dinner soon. There a problem?" he whispered. He could see that there was. Orlando was absolutely still. A rarity.

"Um, no, why?" Orlando whispered back and prayed Elijah wouldn't wake up just yet. Even the prospect of serious humiliation wasn't easing him off the full-on problem.

"Your face." Viggo didn't whisper this time, and the full-voice sound resonated in the quiet room.

"Um. Ah. Jesus, Viggo, don't wake him just yet." Orlando flinched as Elijah squirmed a little in his sleep, preventing even the hope of a fade. "Alternatively, you could be a pal for life and lift him off me _before_ he wakes up." With that, Orlando bit the inside of his cheek and waited for rescue. It was slow in arriving, hesitant even.

Viggo didn't smile, though it was a struggle. He was pleased to have correctly read Orlando's body language. "Waking him now seems like a fair exchange for the dirtiness of your earlier comment to him."

"He was seriously hurting me."

"I know. But you didn't say any number of things that might have come to mind. You said _that_." Viggo scrubbed a hand over his roughened jaw. "He's not hurting you now. How awful would it be to just lie there, let him notice you when he wakes up, let him say something to get even. Or see if he doesn't."

"Because, he might misunderstand." 

"Did you misunderstand?"

"Mm. Dunno." Orlando pondered. "I don't think he likes me or anything."

"Of course he likes you." 

"No, I mean he doesn't _like_ me, wanna get with me or anything. Just hormones. He got his blood up."

"For what it's worth, I think you're right. So why would he misunderstand you?"

"Damnit, Viggo. Maybe because everyone thinks, thanks to _elf boy_ , that I'm just a flamer waiting to get out of the closet. Can't wait to shag any number of my mates."

"Elijah doesn't think that." Viggo forced himself to keep a straight face. "Is this helping with the problem?" he asked in his best therapy voice.

"No." Orlando whispered flatly. Indeed, no. Elijah stirred again, snuggling against Orlando unconsciously exactly as if he were a warm bed. "Oh, God."

"What?"

There was an extended pause. "Him too." Orlando looked back up at the ceiling, blood pooling hotly in his abdomen and rising in his cheeks. "Please get him off me."

"Oh." The word slipped out in exactly the tone Viggo felt deep in his body. He leaned forward, a grin spreading. "Get him off yourself. I have to check on dinner. But I'll be back. Don't want to miss too much."

"This is fucked up," Orlando answered in a fiercer whisper. "When did you go all pervy on us?"

"When I walked in here and saw the two of you mud-wrestling next to my coffee table. You can always roll him off and you're done. Your choice. Simple." Viggo left the chair and padded to the kitchen, leaving Orlando speechless. Over his shoulder he said, "Wish I could help, but you know the Fourth Rule -- only two guys to a fight." He said it as much for his own benefit as Orlando's.

Orlando lay still for a couple of minutes, his breath working counterpoint to Elijah's. He wondered himself why he wasn't rolling Elijah off him. Apparently, Elijah could sleep through the conversation with no problem and would probably sleep right through the extraction. Orlando's lower back was beginning to ache. But the body strewn along him felt good in a deeply comforting way. He thought maybe, just maybe, he could stay put and soften up after all. 

While he wondered, Elijah stirred again and mumbled something incoherent, his hips pressing in a slow, circular grind. Orlando's eyes rolled up to the whites as he shut them. He silently dealt with Elijah stretching and writhing, and breathed out slowly when Elijah stilled. Then, Elijah moaned, a soft, sleepy sound from far away, and his hips shifted again. He was having a good dream, and a little sympathetic resonance slipped out of Orlando's throat before he could stop it.

Viggo heard both sounds, and they called him out of the kitchen as far as the doorway. His blood felt slow and heavy moving through his veins. Viggo thought about what he intended, tried to formulate an action rather than just a reaction. 'I'm a catalyst. No, not quite that. A solvent. Thinning the barriers between constituents just enough so that the separate paints can make a new color.'

From his vantage point, Elijah's backside moved almost imperceptibly, a languid and easy movement as he pressed down into the mattress of Orlando's body. His hips did not stop moving.

Orlando's hands were fists now, touching Elijah's back at just two points. He continued to lie artificially still.

Viggo took two more steps into the room and spoke softly, almost a whisper but not quite. Elijah was dreaming deeply enough not to hear him. "Relax, Orlando. He's asleep."

"I'm not." The spot on the ceiling held Orlando's unwavering attention.

"No. And you're still lying there." Viggo stated the obvious, risked causing him to get up, gave him a verbal push. He noticed that Orlando's breath was coming in little panicky bursts. He was far along. "Does it feel bad?"

"Only in my head," replied Orlando. "What the hell am I doing?" His eyes shifted to Viggo.

Viggo didn't spare Orlando from a direct gaze in return. _Asking permission._ "Indulging in hedonism. And eavesdropping on his dream, whomever it's about." Viggo tried not to think about that part himself. "I'm guessing that guys don't do it for you, but even so, there's something deeply sexy about being the warm spot for someone in an unguarded moment, isn't there?" He knew Orlando wouldn't answer, the question was meant to hang. "Besides, Lij is special." As if to punctuate, Elijah moaned again, breathy, and rubbed his cheek on Orlando's shirt.

"I have to decide soon," Orlando said. Sweat sparkled on his upper lip. Things had gone all slippery in the track pants. 

"Mmm," Viggo allowed himself to think that aloud as he savored the new sound in Orlando's voice. "I say, just let it happen."

"Not waking him, letting him keep on like this, it's... without his permission." His face flushed hotter. "It's wrong."

Viggo leaned over the back of the armchair, concealing his own response. "So, you're the dabbler in extreme sports, wake him up."

"He'd be fucking horrified." 

"If you wake him, it'll be like surfing. The wave could kill you or let you ride it." As the words left Viggo's lips, he knew he had found the metaphorical advantage. The adventurer's glint entered Orlando's eyes like it did on a wild beach. "And there's more than one way to wake him. He might just think you were sleeping too. Got carried away."

"That would be lying." Orlando fixed his eyes back on the ceiling. "About something important."

"So don't lie." Viggo shifted on his bare feet, surreptitiously readjusting himself in the process. Again, he reminded himself that moving from coach to participant in any way would upset the balance. 'Fourth Rule, only two guys to a fight. Fifth Rule -- only one fight at a time.' He memorized every detail of them instead, saving for a rainy day. Or tonight. 

The black eyes closed. Fists opened, and Orlando's palms flattened onto Elijah's upper and lower back. Orlando took a deep, shaky breath, and allowed his body to move ever so gently, responding to Elijah's sleeping rhythm. The strange pressure of extra-hard flesh against his belly and one side of his own erection was definitely something new and different. Hot. Melting. Also cool--leaping off a precipice cool. He could feel Elijah's heartbeat against his chest mirrored in another pulse point, and he pressed up just a tiny bit. The beat intensified. He let his breath out slowly, with a hiss.

The movement elicited a slightly louder moan from Elijah, and the act of making that much sound disturbed his deep sleep. Viggo could see his brows wrinkle as he began to surface. Viggo said softly, "He admires your adventurous spirit. Don't flinch and he'll follow you." 

Orlando's face turned away, hiding, inadvertently baring the curve of his neck to Viggo's eyes. "Lij, hey, wake up," he said, a little too loudly. 

Viggo smiled broadly. Orlando had opted to surf the killer wave.

"Hmmm." Still far away, Elijah smiled against Orlando's now damp t-shirt. "Nooo... I'm having the best dream," he murmured, "feet can wait... just a little longer." Then, the hips on top rocked side to side. 

Orlando groaned, "Elijah, really, you'd better wake up now."

"Just a couple minutes...more," he whispered. "Call me back."

Viggo almost laughed. "He thinks you're his wakeup call."

"Okay, enough fucking around with this. In for a penny." Orlando slid his hands down Elijah's back and just under the waistband of his jeans, speaking normal-voice into the closest ear. "You know you're sleeping on top of me, right?" He thrust up against Elijah. "And it feels really fucking good, y'know."

At that, Viggo gripped the leather back of the chair hard. 

"Uh." Elijah's eyes cracked open. "Jesus, Orlando, what the hell are you doing?"

"Trying to wake you up," Orlando replied. "From some wildly horny dream." He tried the jesting approach.

"I'm awake now." Elijah's face flushed red. "Sorry. Fuck." He started up on his elbows, then, he felt the other hardness against him and froze half-braced, keeping his forehead against Orlando's chest so he wouldn't have to see eyes. "Oh..." 

"Don't," whispered Orlando, "Don't be sorry? Just... stay." His own heart pounded with anxiety. He didn't want to go any further and he didn't want to stop either. Elijah burned into him. He swallowed hard, keeping his face turned away from Viggo. He didn't even know if Elijah realized Viggo was there. "Let's don't think. Just go back to wherever you were and keep humping me."

"Fucking hell," Elijah said, "is that what I was doing?" He didn't move. He felt the heartbeats too.

"Yeah. And I'm really close," Orlando said, his already soft voice shattering.

Elijah turned his face into Orlando's neck. "Then why'd you wake me?" The impulsive move surprised him almost as much as the sound of his own voice turned seductive.

"I was awake. You thought I was the bed. I figured I should give you a chance to say no. To yell and thrash me some more if you wanted." Orlando had to turn his mind nearly off to keep going. Say the next thought, you blurt stuff out all the time anyway, can't shut up. "But I'd rather you just go back to that fantastic move you do with your hips. Please."

At the sound of Orlando begging, Viggo just had to push the raw ache of his cock against the back of the armchair. He let his breath out slowly, through his nose, to avoid making any noise. 

"What are we doing?" Elijah whispered, his arms trembling enough that he had to shift them.

Orlando's hands tightened again on Elijah's ass, flesh he had never once before thought about touching. "I don't really give a shit right now. Do you?" He did give a shit, but lying to protect Elijah was different than lying to steal from him.

Elijah let out a ragged breath. "You have to help me start. I can't just..." He didn't have to go on. Orlando arched up and pulled Elijah's hips down roughly, once, twice. Despite soft cloth against thick jeans and wetness on both sides, the friction sparked fast heat. Flint on steel. "Fuck, yeah," said Elijah and took over with a fury. 

Orlando yelped at the first hard thrust. Working his hands further down into the loose jeans, smoothing over bare flesh, Orlando felt Elijah's muscles flex, and little jolts skittered up over his body. He felt a sudden and powerful urge to run his fingers down the crack of Elijah's ass and it freaked him out so much he almost pulled back. Then, he felt Elijah's teeth on his neck, light, soft, slick, not kissing but scraping, and he gave up a long moan that couldn't be mistaken for anything but sexual pleasure. 

"More, please more," panted Elijah against his skin, "more voice." 

Orlando was practically in outer space but he wasn't entirely uninhibited. He tensed at the request even as the core of his body went liquid with the words. 

No," Elijah murmured, "give it up for me, please." Fight back. 

At the sound of Elijah begging, Viggo just had to push again, harder this time. 

Elijah switched sides of the neck, forcing Orlando turn his face back to the ceiling and then toward Viggo to expose new parts of his skin to the pleasure of the teeth. Elijah paused to ask again, "Please? I won't tell, I'll never tell. First Rule, Second Rule." 

The sound of Orlando's less stifled moans in response caused the armchair to jump just a tiny bit forward on the carpet.

The movement caught Orlando's half-closed eyes. They snapped open and met Viggo's with a start. The pink that happened to Orlando's cheeks then was more sexual than the movement of Elijah's hips, yet his gaze held. He forced it to hold. 

Viggo took a careful step back, giving Orlando more distance and a crooked smile. Leaving the chair regrettably meant that the effect all this was having on Viggo might be seen, but Orlando's eyes didn't leave Viggo's eyes. So Viggo leaned back against the wall, exuding challenge. He imagined that Orlando must feel his intense desire to touch himself though he kept his thumbs hooked in the loops of his jeans. No, his motives were not pure and his eyes reflected that, daring Orlando to flinch.

Elijah suddenly needed the next thrust and response like the next breath of air. In case his reassuring words were not enough for Orlando, Elijah added his hand between them, firm on the outside of the damp track pants. 

Shocked by the boldness, Orlando groaned from somewhere low in his spine, and Elijah thrust harder against him. In that moment, Orlando lost Viggo's eyes as his own slid shut. The groan turned into a cry of delight and Elijah answered it with his own higher voice.

Viggo wondered if there was an equation elegant enough to describe this coalescing of reluctant, off-beat rhythms into perfect syncopation. The physical manifestation of such a formula undulated on his rug, and he loved it, breathed it, wanted to articulate it. He both wished for naked skin and didn't--they had almost managed the Sixth Rule--no shirts, no shoes. The orange t-shirt against pink cloth, bare feet and bare waists, hands moving under denim, were already just right. So just right. The room hummed with their energy.

Elijah squeezed with his hand. "So very hard," he murmured against the skin under Orlando's ear in a tone that was not at all innocent.

A bright line tore loose in Orlando's brain, and his fingers followed through with their earlier wish, sliding downward through damp heat.

"Yes!" Elijah sang out as he arched up and back against the gentle pressure of Orlando's fingers. He came in great, pulsing bursts, the first wetness shooting along his skin and lubing the rest of his thrusts into a continuous, blinding slide of pleasure.

Orlando was caught off guard by the sudden speed. The combination of Elijah grabbing him and pulsing against him ripped into his belly and caused him to lose control. The hardest wave was first and he cried out. The second was softer, and he choked on the sound. Elijah's hand pressed with the third, eliciting a long, low groan that trailed off into space. Then the swells rolled over him softer and softer until he lay battered and panting on the shore.

Viggo heard the blood rush in his ears as he watched the two young bodies cantilever against one another, two backward arches balancing, rocking, on a single nexus. He held off, refusing to join them, aching to let go, promising himself exorbitant rewards later. 

The perfect moment of suspension finally ended, and Elijah's shoulders rounded just as Orlando fell back to flatness. Elijah's other hand returned to the floor beside Orlando's head. His forehead lowered until it touched Orlando's lips. With his eyes still closed, Orlando tasted Elijah's sweat and smiled. 

"Oh no," Elijah breathed at last, anxiety in his voice. His racing mind was in control again.

Viggo tried to think of what to say or do. He was paralyzed. 

Orlando's hands slid out of Elijah's jeans and found either side of his friend's head. "Look at me. I mean it. Look at me. Now, Lij." 

Slowly, Elijah raised his head, fearfully. He met a fierce gaze. "We're fine." Orlando's breath was still rough and fast, but he held steady. "Everything's the same. We jumped out of a plane together. That's all." His eyes glittered. "A fucking fabulous rush. That's all." He rolled Elijah to his side facing away from Viggo and tucked him against a shoulder. The other hand still cradled the back of Elijah's head. 

Viggo met Orlando's eyes and backed toward the kitchen. It was so interesting that Elijah would take control, urge Orlando on, and then fear his own power afterward. Immediately, with hardly a heartbeat of transition. It was so interesting that Orlando would take the fall for both of them.

"There's no way Viggo didn't hear that." Elijah's voice wavered.

"So what?" Orlando asked softly. "It sounded really great." He let go of Elijah's head and rested his elbow on his own hip. "About Viggo... you were sleeping and missed the Fifth Rule."

"Dare I ask?" Elijah easily took Orlando's lead, trusted, followed. Orlando had the balls to admit that he liked it while reminding them both that it had context. It. 

"Fifth Rule--One fight at a time."

Elijah laughed and that eased the room. "So, I guess you forgive me for pinching the hell out of you earlier."

"Yeah. I think we're even now."

"Jesus, I'm a mess." Elijah decided to match Orlando's directness.

"Hm. Me too. Wonder if any of Viggo's clothes will fit." They both laughed at that idea.

Viggo was looking out the kitchen window, scratching his beard and going over what he had seen. When he spoke, his voice was rough around the edges. "Check the closet outside the bathroom. I ended up with some of your stuff from the fishing trip. Took the liberty of washing it."

"Shit. That answers the hearing question," Elijah said sheepishly.

"Made my whole month," answered Viggo.

"Was he watching too?" Elijah asked, shyly, only for Orlando to hear.

"Yeah." Orlando squeezed his shoulder.

"That's why you were looking away the whole time."

"Yeah." Orlando tried to be relaxed talking about it.

"Good. I thought it was me. That you couldn't..."

"Well, I didn't think you'd want me to. Look."

"You know, um, I'm not really..."

"Into guys?'"

"Right."

"Me neither. Jumping out of an airplane." Orlando focused in on Elijah's wide eyes. "With someone I totally trust. Not just anyone."

Elijah put his palm flat against Orlando's cheek. "Thanks for that," he said, and pulled his hand away.

Orlando could smell his own semen on Elijah's hand and he grinned, realizing that the hand had, at some point, gone unnoticed into the track pants. The kid had more courage than he did. "Let's go get some clean clothes, eh?"

Viggo spoke again, the disembodied voice, feigning irritation. "Hurry up. Dinner's been waiting already. A long time."

They scrambled to clean up and find clothes. It was, miraculously, an unselfconscious wardrobe change. Afterward, Orlando helped Elijah check his head and nose for any real damage. 

"I've been getting these weird nosebleeds anyway."

"You don't take care of yourself, Lij." Orlando flinched. There he went again.

"So... help me take care of myself," Elijah smiled over at him. "But that's funny coming from you."

"Are you kidding? My body's my temple now. An occasional thrill doesn't count..." The words pretty much died on his lips. Elijah winked with mischief and Orlando stared after him as he disappeared down the hall and into the kitchen.

They helped Viggo set out the food. Elijah scoffed a little at the full sit-down dinner idea. "The table looks like... Martha Stuart was here." 

Viggo cuffed him affectionately. "Do I have to tell you the Seventh Rule?"

"How many of these damn rules are there?" demanded Elijah. 

Orlando thought about it and answered, "The other Fight Club had eight."

Viggo smiled. "Remember what the final one was? If this is your first night at Viggo's Fight Club..."

"You have to fight," Orlando said. "Think we nailed that one." 

"There are more than eight rules for my Fight Club, though."

"Oh. How many?" Elijah was intrigued.

"Nine, of course."

Elijah and Orlando looked at one another with something between apprehension and curiosity. "Ninth rule?"

Viggo grinned hugely. "Fucking is better than fighting and may be substituted into any and all of the other rules." Round eyes blinked back at him and he turned his attention to filling his plate. "Of course, I use the term broadly. No need to get literal. Rubbing off certainly counts."

Orlando swallowed a bite of food that he couldn't taste. "Elijah, maybe we better tell Viggo not to go and blow anything up."

Elijah snorted, "I think it's too late, don't you?"

**Author's Note:**

> 1st Rule: You do not talk about Viggo's Fight Club.
> 
> 2nd Rule: You DO NOT talk about Viggo's Fight Club.
> 
> 3rd Rule: If someone says "stop" or goes limp, taps out, the fight is over.
> 
> 4th Rule: Only two guys to a fight.
> 
> 5th Rule: One fight at a time.
> 
> 6th Rule: No shirts, no shoes.
> 
> 7th Rule: Fights will go on as long as they have to.
> 
> 8th Rule: If this is your first night at Viggo's Fight Club, you HAVE to fight.
> 
> 9th Rule: Fucking is better than fighting and may be substituted into any and all of the other rules.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Originally written 2004. The few times I have written RPF/RPS, it is with the idea firmly in mind that I am still writing completely _fictional_ characters that derive from celebrity personas. It is the extension of the film work that interests me; how must the act of artistic creation influence the artist?


End file.
